Roger was an expert. As a new supervisor I relied on him to keep our CNC Router going. The CNC was the lifeblood of our department as it shaped all the desk-tops and table-tops our furniture factory produced. The raw top came to our department and was set on the CNC where the routers shaped the top into the size it needed to be and cut a groove in the edge so we could attach a “T” shaped edging to it; then the CNC drilled holes in the bottom so we could attach hardware and so the installers could attach legs or brackets to hang the worksurface. Finally we date-stamped it, labeled it and shoved it in a box for the customer. EVERYTHING depended on the CNC and it’s expert operator.
The problem was: Roger new he was THE expert and that the whole department depended on him. It went to his head. He would come to work just a little late and stay his breaks just a little long to make sure I knew he was the expert and I needed him. He would quit when he wanted to and start cleaning up even if we were only two tops away from finishing an order. I was the boss, the supervisor but he was the indispensable expert and made it clear to me that he ran the department.
John Maxwell, the leadership guru said, “You cannot lead those you need.” Even as a young (25 year-old) production supervisor I recognized there was something wrong with this arrangement. At first I started by calling him in the office and trying to be his friend and getting to know him but that backfired into even longer breaks and earlier cleanup. When he refused to stay a little longer for overtime to finish an order I “wrote him up” which was the first step in discipline. He laughed at me and didn’t change. When I gave him a second disciplinary letter over another refusal and he still didn’t change I began to document his tardiness to prepare to fire him. I can still, 20 years later, hear him say to me: “You can’t fire me, I keep this department going. They will fire you because you will get nothing done!”
What he didn’t know was that I was close to the First Shift Supervisor and I had sent one of my best employees to first shift to train with their CNC operator. Tim came back to my Second Shift ready and trained and I moved Roger to pounding the vinyl edging for a week as Tim ran the CNC and ran it well. From that time on, Roger was one of my best employees. You cannot lead those you need.
I learned some life lessons from that experience. I learned that, while being friends is great and good, you cannot befriend everyone if you want to be a leader. I learned that NO ONE is indispensable and EVERY ONE can be replaced, including me. I learned that befriending someone with a big head only makes the head bigger and you smaller. After a dose of humility and recognizing he really wasn’t indispensable Roger and I had a great working relationship and I had the respect of the department.
Are you an expert? How’s your head girth?
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Genius
I have to admit, I cheated in Seminary. That sounds pretty bad doesn’t it so let me soften it a bit. In seminary I got really good at killing two birds with one stone. I would have a huge paper due on one particular book of the Bible and so I would “just happen” to be preaching from that same book at my church. My masters thesis “just happened” to be on the VERY THING I was doing out in my community at the time. The research I did for my class I used in my sermons, the surveys and community involvement I did for my church also was the research for my master’s thesis.
In the 1700’s and 1800’s there were composers that would compose a complete opera for one particular opera house in a matter of two weeks. Rossini was one of those wandering composers who came to the Valley Theater in Rome and was asked for a quick opera. While a genius, many thought he was more lazy than genius and would often not compose the overture until the very day of the performance. The composers often did battle with the singers, especially the “prima donnas” who would take their composition and “enhance” it with all kinds of extra runs, high notes and even drop out songs to make themselves look better; after all, people came to the theater for the soloists not the composer. Rossini composed this opera in two weeks, turning over the overture a full day before the performance. The opera was a hit and Rossini became a legend. The opera was called The Barber of Seville and it’s overture was it’s second most famous piece. (Figaro being the most famous piece) Most of us grew up with the overture to the Barber of Seville from Bugs Bunny’s rendition: The Rabbit of Seville. You can find it on Youtube if you forgot.
What we don’t know is that the overture for the Barber of Seville was used not just once, but this was the FIFTH TIME he used this overture in one of his operas. You wonder how a composer can produce an entire opera in a few weeks. He borrows from all his previous operas, changes a note here and there and reuses it. He could get away with it since nothing was recorded in the 1800’s and composers would often wander from town to town. Talk about killing two birds with one chorus.
There are some preachers I know who believe they only have a certain amount of good sermons in them. Once they start running low they take a call to another church and start over again. Is this cheating and underhanded or is this smart and efficient? I have come to discover that if you give a lazy man a job that he HAS to do, you will find the most efficient and quick way to get things done. I think it all depends on your expectations. If you pay someone to produce a great opera for you, HOW he did it didn’t matter as much as how GOOD he did it. If you are expecting God to move through a preacher and touch you, should the fact that he gave that sermon 5 times before detract if the message truly moves you?
You will find many a genius is a master of efficiency. Or he could simply be lazy
In the 1700’s and 1800’s there were composers that would compose a complete opera for one particular opera house in a matter of two weeks. Rossini was one of those wandering composers who came to the Valley Theater in Rome and was asked for a quick opera. While a genius, many thought he was more lazy than genius and would often not compose the overture until the very day of the performance. The composers often did battle with the singers, especially the “prima donnas” who would take their composition and “enhance” it with all kinds of extra runs, high notes and even drop out songs to make themselves look better; after all, people came to the theater for the soloists not the composer. Rossini composed this opera in two weeks, turning over the overture a full day before the performance. The opera was a hit and Rossini became a legend. The opera was called The Barber of Seville and it’s overture was it’s second most famous piece. (Figaro being the most famous piece) Most of us grew up with the overture to the Barber of Seville from Bugs Bunny’s rendition: The Rabbit of Seville. You can find it on Youtube if you forgot.
What we don’t know is that the overture for the Barber of Seville was used not just once, but this was the FIFTH TIME he used this overture in one of his operas. You wonder how a composer can produce an entire opera in a few weeks. He borrows from all his previous operas, changes a note here and there and reuses it. He could get away with it since nothing was recorded in the 1800’s and composers would often wander from town to town. Talk about killing two birds with one chorus.
There are some preachers I know who believe they only have a certain amount of good sermons in them. Once they start running low they take a call to another church and start over again. Is this cheating and underhanded or is this smart and efficient? I have come to discover that if you give a lazy man a job that he HAS to do, you will find the most efficient and quick way to get things done. I think it all depends on your expectations. If you pay someone to produce a great opera for you, HOW he did it didn’t matter as much as how GOOD he did it. If you are expecting God to move through a preacher and touch you, should the fact that he gave that sermon 5 times before detract if the message truly moves you?
You will find many a genius is a master of efficiency. Or he could simply be lazy
By and Large
By and large I am a pretty simple guy.
By and large I don’t get riled up about much.
By and large my peccadilloes are relatively miniscule.
Whoa. Let’s stop a minute before I get too carried away with my excessive verbiage. I like words. I like to look up the meanings of words, this is called the etiology or more precisely the etymology of words. By and large it is kind of a geek pastime.
By and large. That is an interesting phrase isn’t it? A friend of mine gave me a desk calendar that has etymologies on it and “by and large” showed up. This is a nautical phrase. A phrase used by sailors. When you have a LOT OF wind or a “favorable” wind, one in your direction, you say you have a “large” wind. You then use you large square sails to catch the most out of this large wind. “By” is a little more difficult, because it means the opposite: sailing against a large wind or you sail “by the wind.” So when you have a ship that can sail in a large wind, in a favorable direction and by the wind in the opposite direction you have a ship that can handle anything: by and large. It was used first that we know of in 1669 in the Mariners Magazine “this ship handled in fair weather and foul, by and large.” Since then it has come to mean “generally” or “for the most part.”
We use those phrases all the time in English and it is confusing to those who are learning the language. I have a Korean friend that I golf with and I will say things like, “You are ahead of me by one stroke” or “I can’t get down on the ball in my swing because my back is killing me” or “I have a serious case of aquaphobia.” Think about these phrases as a person learning English would. Ahead by a stroke even those you have LESS strokes to lead in golf? Get down on your ball? Back killing you? Aquaphobia?
Words can be very powerful and very confusing. Words can sting and can calm. Words fascinate me by and large.
As to peccadilloes and miniscule? Well, I’ll let you look them up.
By and large I don’t get riled up about much.
By and large my peccadilloes are relatively miniscule.
Whoa. Let’s stop a minute before I get too carried away with my excessive verbiage. I like words. I like to look up the meanings of words, this is called the etiology or more precisely the etymology of words. By and large it is kind of a geek pastime.
By and large. That is an interesting phrase isn’t it? A friend of mine gave me a desk calendar that has etymologies on it and “by and large” showed up. This is a nautical phrase. A phrase used by sailors. When you have a LOT OF wind or a “favorable” wind, one in your direction, you say you have a “large” wind. You then use you large square sails to catch the most out of this large wind. “By” is a little more difficult, because it means the opposite: sailing against a large wind or you sail “by the wind.” So when you have a ship that can sail in a large wind, in a favorable direction and by the wind in the opposite direction you have a ship that can handle anything: by and large. It was used first that we know of in 1669 in the Mariners Magazine “this ship handled in fair weather and foul, by and large.” Since then it has come to mean “generally” or “for the most part.”
We use those phrases all the time in English and it is confusing to those who are learning the language. I have a Korean friend that I golf with and I will say things like, “You are ahead of me by one stroke” or “I can’t get down on the ball in my swing because my back is killing me” or “I have a serious case of aquaphobia.” Think about these phrases as a person learning English would. Ahead by a stroke even those you have LESS strokes to lead in golf? Get down on your ball? Back killing you? Aquaphobia?
Words can be very powerful and very confusing. Words can sting and can calm. Words fascinate me by and large.
As to peccadilloes and miniscule? Well, I’ll let you look them up.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Rendering to Caesar
I just got done filing my taxes. It is still early in the year so you probably know that I am not paying into the IRS. You can tell people who are getting money back with how quickly the file their taxes after getting their W2’s in the mail. It may come on January 31 and their taxes are filed and off to the IRS electronically on February 1 in anticipation of their bonus check in three weeks. Others will wait until midnight of April 15th and slide it in the mailbox at the last possible moment to make sure the check will float for the longest period of time until it hits their bank. I am somewhere in the middle. I don’t pay in and I don’t get back so I am in no hurry, it is more of a nuisance than trauma or bonus check excitement.
Taxes are an interesting phenomenon. Taxes are what helped start our country in rebellion to England. Taxation without representation has been an issue every year since. Too much, not enough, taxing the wealthy, taxing the middle class, taxing death, taxing birth, taxing luxury, taxing winnings and even taxing losses. As much as I like the idea of a postcard tax form I realize it is not practical but my telling the government that I don’t owe them anything takes 16 pages of tax forms is not practical either. Now that I can file electronically at least I don’t waist all the paper and postage to do it but it is still a bit frustrating.
Republicans will tell you that they want to cut your taxes because they think you can handle your money better than the government. Democrats will tell you that they don’t want to cut your taxes but they want the rich to pay more because you have proven you can’t handle it better than the government. Taxes support our schools, our military, and they support many of the things we take for granted but there is also a lot of waste in our distribution. Since we are human and the people who distribute our taxes are human and the people who receive the support are human you will inevitably find that there will be abuse and waste. We can demand accountability from our political leaders for our tax money but that costs more money.
I wait at a light and see a scruffy looking man limping by me and carrying a beat up piece of cardboard with “Hungry, homeless, God bless” scrawled on it and I wonder about all that charitable contributions I just listed, I wonder about all the money for social services I just paid in taxes, I wonder whether it is a scam, and I wonder about whether I should look him in the eyes or ignore him. I wonder what happens when you render to Caesar and he turns out to be a people-hating tyrant. I wonder how my few dollars will impact a trillion dollar budget one way or another. Then I quit wondering, roll down my window and hand him a fresh bottle of water.
Minding your Spiritual Business
Taxes are an interesting phenomenon. Taxes are what helped start our country in rebellion to England. Taxation without representation has been an issue every year since. Too much, not enough, taxing the wealthy, taxing the middle class, taxing death, taxing birth, taxing luxury, taxing winnings and even taxing losses. As much as I like the idea of a postcard tax form I realize it is not practical but my telling the government that I don’t owe them anything takes 16 pages of tax forms is not practical either. Now that I can file electronically at least I don’t waist all the paper and postage to do it but it is still a bit frustrating.
Republicans will tell you that they want to cut your taxes because they think you can handle your money better than the government. Democrats will tell you that they don’t want to cut your taxes but they want the rich to pay more because you have proven you can’t handle it better than the government. Taxes support our schools, our military, and they support many of the things we take for granted but there is also a lot of waste in our distribution. Since we are human and the people who distribute our taxes are human and the people who receive the support are human you will inevitably find that there will be abuse and waste. We can demand accountability from our political leaders for our tax money but that costs more money.
I wait at a light and see a scruffy looking man limping by me and carrying a beat up piece of cardboard with “Hungry, homeless, God bless” scrawled on it and I wonder about all that charitable contributions I just listed, I wonder about all the money for social services I just paid in taxes, I wonder whether it is a scam, and I wonder about whether I should look him in the eyes or ignore him. I wonder what happens when you render to Caesar and he turns out to be a people-hating tyrant. I wonder how my few dollars will impact a trillion dollar budget one way or another. Then I quit wondering, roll down my window and hand him a fresh bottle of water.
Minding your Spiritual Business
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Memoirs from a New York City Bus 3
The numbers were confusing but the maps helped on the busy New York City Street. We watched cabs weave in and out of traffic as they battled for a half car advantage over the vehicle next to them. Getting the nose of your car there first means everything. I saw very few personal vehicles, the New York street was filled with cabs, limos, delivery vans, construction trucks, and busses. It was one of those busses my wife and I waited for. Our Metro Card worked on busses as well as the Subway. Apparently you get close with the Subway and then walk or take the bus to your specific destination. So here we were, standing at a pole that told us our bus would stop here and then it came.
Our first attempt at a bus was a failure, while we had “exact” money we didn’t have exact “change”. I didn’t know people still used change anymore. While my wife rifled through her purse the bus took off anticipating our $4 in change. Seeing our typical tourist embarrassing dilemma, a good Samaritan close by offered us change. I gave her my paper money and a smile of thanks and used her coins to jingle through the box at the entrance of the bus. We sat in our seat waiting for time to erase the embarrassed tourism stain we just covered ourselves with.
NOW, we were old pros and armed with our Metro Card we calmly slipped it into the slot on that same box and waited for it to spit it back out at us as we smoothly moved to find a seat. As we sat looking out the large windows at the NYC building and activity an elderly man worked his way up the steps to that threatening box. He put a Metro Card in the slot and it spit it out for a different reason, it was expired. The bus driver attempted to take it to throw it away but the man was quicker and put it back in his pocket. He tried another, then another, then another. The bus driver was getting impatient and apparently knew the trick. All the man said was “I’m 95 years old! I can’t keep track of these things!” Card after card was thrown into the garbage until finally the man just went and sat down. The bus driver, in a Brooklyn accent, told the man he had to pay. “I’m 95 years old! I can’t keep track of these things!” I was about to get up and pay for the man but I realized, again, I didn’t have correct change and the Metro Card only works once. But before I could complete the debate in my mind the bus pulled away from the curb and solved the problem. He sat calmly, like he’d pulled this trick for the hundredth time and would a hundred more. “Next time get a good card!” said the driver as the man exited. “I’m 95 years old, I can’t keep track of these things!” and he was gone.
I smiled at the man as his years, glass eye, and cane covered up an amazingly sharp mind. I wanted to know him, I pictured him as that grandfather that sneaks you candy when mom and dad say “no.” I pictured him as that penny pincher who, when finally dead after 110 years, has millions stashed away under his bed and in coffee cans. While the bus driver had to play the annoyed child of the crazy parent, I got to be the grandchild he slipped the candy to and I would have loved to sit on his lap and hear the story of his 95 years.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Our first attempt at a bus was a failure, while we had “exact” money we didn’t have exact “change”. I didn’t know people still used change anymore. While my wife rifled through her purse the bus took off anticipating our $4 in change. Seeing our typical tourist embarrassing dilemma, a good Samaritan close by offered us change. I gave her my paper money and a smile of thanks and used her coins to jingle through the box at the entrance of the bus. We sat in our seat waiting for time to erase the embarrassed tourism stain we just covered ourselves with.
NOW, we were old pros and armed with our Metro Card we calmly slipped it into the slot on that same box and waited for it to spit it back out at us as we smoothly moved to find a seat. As we sat looking out the large windows at the NYC building and activity an elderly man worked his way up the steps to that threatening box. He put a Metro Card in the slot and it spit it out for a different reason, it was expired. The bus driver attempted to take it to throw it away but the man was quicker and put it back in his pocket. He tried another, then another, then another. The bus driver was getting impatient and apparently knew the trick. All the man said was “I’m 95 years old! I can’t keep track of these things!” Card after card was thrown into the garbage until finally the man just went and sat down. The bus driver, in a Brooklyn accent, told the man he had to pay. “I’m 95 years old! I can’t keep track of these things!” I was about to get up and pay for the man but I realized, again, I didn’t have correct change and the Metro Card only works once. But before I could complete the debate in my mind the bus pulled away from the curb and solved the problem. He sat calmly, like he’d pulled this trick for the hundredth time and would a hundred more. “Next time get a good card!” said the driver as the man exited. “I’m 95 years old, I can’t keep track of these things!” and he was gone.
I smiled at the man as his years, glass eye, and cane covered up an amazingly sharp mind. I wanted to know him, I pictured him as that grandfather that sneaks you candy when mom and dad say “no.” I pictured him as that penny pincher who, when finally dead after 110 years, has millions stashed away under his bed and in coffee cans. While the bus driver had to play the annoyed child of the crazy parent, I got to be the grandchild he slipped the candy to and I would have loved to sit on his lap and hear the story of his 95 years.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Memoirs from a New York City Subway 2
The plastic benches are surprisingly comfortable as my wife and I sit. They are colored in 70’s tones but there is a lot of chrome around and chrome, like blue jeans, never goes out of style. As we move along south, at least I hope its south, on Manhattan Island the subway fills with people heading to work. Soon the comfortable bench becomes crowded and people begin to stand in front of me. They hold the vertical chrome bars first but as more and more people crush into the car they begin to grasp the horizontal ones above my head and I have a great view of armpits in front of me. At every stop the deck is reshuffled as people move about to get out, get in, get a better grip or get an open seat.
Businessmen read papers folded strategically with one hand while holding on with the other. Young people with backpacks are wired into their iPods as they bob their heads to the bass drum even I can hear across the aisle. Moms with children pulled close to them like hens protecting them from the crush of people in the car. Women in short skirts and fashion purses check their makeup in small mirrors. Rough workers with Thermos lunch boxes and Yankee caps pulled down over their eyes sleep in corners. Magically they understand the garbled announcement of the upcoming station and the next one as my wife and I look at each other questioning what the announcement was. It sounded more like a bad fast-food drive through box. More likely the experienced “feel” when they are at their stop, there bodies know when to wake them or nudge them out of their iPod induced stupor and exit the train.
As I feel the car accelerate and decelerate with each passing station I watch the people. Not the individuals anymore, the PEOPLE as a whole. Everyone is in sync. The subway takes off and we all lean the same way in the crush of people. The subway stops and we all lean the opposite way together. We reshuffled the deck and all lean the same way as it takes off. I smile at the subway dance. All equal, all participate; all are a part of the dance. Businessmen lean with the construction workers, short skirted women lean with moms and their children, and we tourists join in the dance and lean and shuffle with all of them.
I smile as I watch the subway dance until I am nudged by my wife that we are at our stop. From outside I watch the reshuffle and the lean as the train takes off again. A little sadness creeps in as I miss my fellow dancers. We are not so different after all, we people. My fellowship moves on without me as my wife and I move through the hall and into the real, sunlit world again.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Businessmen read papers folded strategically with one hand while holding on with the other. Young people with backpacks are wired into their iPods as they bob their heads to the bass drum even I can hear across the aisle. Moms with children pulled close to them like hens protecting them from the crush of people in the car. Women in short skirts and fashion purses check their makeup in small mirrors. Rough workers with Thermos lunch boxes and Yankee caps pulled down over their eyes sleep in corners. Magically they understand the garbled announcement of the upcoming station and the next one as my wife and I look at each other questioning what the announcement was. It sounded more like a bad fast-food drive through box. More likely the experienced “feel” when they are at their stop, there bodies know when to wake them or nudge them out of their iPod induced stupor and exit the train.
As I feel the car accelerate and decelerate with each passing station I watch the people. Not the individuals anymore, the PEOPLE as a whole. Everyone is in sync. The subway takes off and we all lean the same way in the crush of people. The subway stops and we all lean the opposite way together. We reshuffled the deck and all lean the same way as it takes off. I smile at the subway dance. All equal, all participate; all are a part of the dance. Businessmen lean with the construction workers, short skirted women lean with moms and their children, and we tourists join in the dance and lean and shuffle with all of them.
I smile as I watch the subway dance until I am nudged by my wife that we are at our stop. From outside I watch the reshuffle and the lean as the train takes off again. A little sadness creeps in as I miss my fellow dancers. We are not so different after all, we people. My fellowship moves on without me as my wife and I move through the hall and into the real, sunlit world again.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Memoirs from a New York City Subway
My wife and I headed to the wedding of a family member a little early so that we could spend a few days in New York City. We had never been there and we wanted to take in the sites, see a few shows and buy a few gifts. Apparently taking a personal car on Manhattan Island is suicide both physically and financially so we were trained by a friend in the City on how to use the subway and bus system.
Armed with a subway system map, a Metro Card giving us a weeks worth of riding, and our belief in humanity we found the nearest stairway leading into the unknown. I have rarely ridden on public transportation. No buses other than the ones I needed to get to school and no trains other than trams around airports and amusement parks.
I could feel my heart racing as I walked down the steps. They were concrete and swept but still stained black from millions of shoes and ground dirt. The lights dimmed as we descended and then we faced our first test. It was a twisted metal jungle with a turnstile in the middle. I swiped my Metro Card and pushed through the metal thicket to the other side. We slowly merged into the traffic of experienced riders searching for any clue: number, letter, or even color that would take us to our train. Finding the clue we picked up speed and hoped we didn’t look too much like one of those annoying tourists. (Although the wide-eyed Bambi expression, Hawaiian shirt, and camera’s around our neck probably gave us away). We went through hallways, stairways and escalators to find our train and finally there it was.
I stood on the concrete pad earnestly looking down a dark tunnel to see my train. Across the tracks was a tile wall with the name of where I was currently standing “42nd Street” written in different colored tile. I remembered the first Matrix movie where Neo and Mr. Smith did battle and busted up a similar looking subway station. All around me were people avoiding each other’s eyes, in their own cocoon sometimes looking at their watches, sometimes looking down the tunnel but mostly looking into their own little world.
The air was hot and stuffy and so were the people. Then a cool breeze wafted down the stairs in the form of music. Music being played on some kind of pipe flute and it was good. We, my fellow travelers and I, looked up the stairs together to see where it was coming from. When we could not see anything we were about to go back to our own worlds when down the stairs came a young man with his hands raised high yelling “I can fly, Jack, I can fly! I am the king of the world!” All around my smiled and some even laughed out loud as we all now knew where we heard that music before. It was the theme to Titanic. The young man disappeared into the crowd; the people went back to their own cocoon and with a whoosh of air that preceded the coming train my attention was back on the business at hand. The young man filled his backpack with a hundred smiles and a few laughs. I happily gave him a smile and resolved to steal a few from other people that day.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Armed with a subway system map, a Metro Card giving us a weeks worth of riding, and our belief in humanity we found the nearest stairway leading into the unknown. I have rarely ridden on public transportation. No buses other than the ones I needed to get to school and no trains other than trams around airports and amusement parks.
I could feel my heart racing as I walked down the steps. They were concrete and swept but still stained black from millions of shoes and ground dirt. The lights dimmed as we descended and then we faced our first test. It was a twisted metal jungle with a turnstile in the middle. I swiped my Metro Card and pushed through the metal thicket to the other side. We slowly merged into the traffic of experienced riders searching for any clue: number, letter, or even color that would take us to our train. Finding the clue we picked up speed and hoped we didn’t look too much like one of those annoying tourists. (Although the wide-eyed Bambi expression, Hawaiian shirt, and camera’s around our neck probably gave us away). We went through hallways, stairways and escalators to find our train and finally there it was.
I stood on the concrete pad earnestly looking down a dark tunnel to see my train. Across the tracks was a tile wall with the name of where I was currently standing “42nd Street” written in different colored tile. I remembered the first Matrix movie where Neo and Mr. Smith did battle and busted up a similar looking subway station. All around me were people avoiding each other’s eyes, in their own cocoon sometimes looking at their watches, sometimes looking down the tunnel but mostly looking into their own little world.
The air was hot and stuffy and so were the people. Then a cool breeze wafted down the stairs in the form of music. Music being played on some kind of pipe flute and it was good. We, my fellow travelers and I, looked up the stairs together to see where it was coming from. When we could not see anything we were about to go back to our own worlds when down the stairs came a young man with his hands raised high yelling “I can fly, Jack, I can fly! I am the king of the world!” All around my smiled and some even laughed out loud as we all now knew where we heard that music before. It was the theme to Titanic. The young man disappeared into the crowd; the people went back to their own cocoon and with a whoosh of air that preceded the coming train my attention was back on the business at hand. The young man filled his backpack with a hundred smiles and a few laughs. I happily gave him a smile and resolved to steal a few from other people that day.
www.themoralbusiness.com
The Merry-go-round Pole
As I drive through the Sierra Nevada Mountain range I notice my automatic transmission downshifts as I make my way uphill. My air conditioner is making it a little too cool for me and so I turn it down a notch. I reach over and munch on a snack bar and take a swig of my bottled water and then turn up the volume on my CD player as a great song is now on. I look off to the snow covered peaks in my protected shell and marvel at the beauty there. Multi-hues of gray and black are mixed in with the snow-white peaks; the white salt flats shimmer in the sun and look as if they are holding up a blue lake a few feet off the ground. Joshua trees extend their arms in praise along the highway seeming to wave at me as I pass by at 80 mph.
I caught a show on the first white conquerors of the American West. Not so much the conquering and killing of the Native Americans and Mexicans as much as the conquering of the land. The things that I now look on as beauty they looked on as another unassailable wall. My truck simply downshifts to make it up and over the mountain passes but they had a much bigger challenge. First they had to find the pass through the mountain, or around it, or the easiest over it. Next they had to blaze the trail, mark it, and memorize it. Then they dealt with bears, dead water, extreme heat and extreme cold. Finally arriving in California they had to make their way all the way back again through the same hostile land. Next came the rails connecting the country; then the roads and finally the expressway that I was driving on.
I never knew the telegraph, my kids will never know rotary phones or party lines, their kids will never know landline phones. I never road a horse and buggy, my kids don’t know regular vs. unleaded and their kids won’t know fossil fuel. To me the Nazi’s are in the history books, my kids studied Viet Nam and the Cold War as history, and their kids will look at the Middle East wars as too long ago to be important. We move at an ever increasing rate of change. It is as if we are on a Merry-go-round going faster and faster as we try to reach for something stationary to hang on to but all we can manage is a touch of memory or a short grip of a flash photo in our minds. I notice even when we put our pictures into albums all nicely dressed up we cut out the background to keep what we think is important. We leave a cutout of us at that time with no context to surround us.
As I hold on tight to the pole of my Merry-go-round I wonder what is next and what I have to look forward to. It is exciting and scary and that is life. Then I open my hands folded around a solid pole in the midst of the chaos of change and I smile. I smile because “I don’t know what the future holds, but I know who holds the future.” Do you?
www.themoralbusiness.com
I caught a show on the first white conquerors of the American West. Not so much the conquering and killing of the Native Americans and Mexicans as much as the conquering of the land. The things that I now look on as beauty they looked on as another unassailable wall. My truck simply downshifts to make it up and over the mountain passes but they had a much bigger challenge. First they had to find the pass through the mountain, or around it, or the easiest over it. Next they had to blaze the trail, mark it, and memorize it. Then they dealt with bears, dead water, extreme heat and extreme cold. Finally arriving in California they had to make their way all the way back again through the same hostile land. Next came the rails connecting the country; then the roads and finally the expressway that I was driving on.
I never knew the telegraph, my kids will never know rotary phones or party lines, their kids will never know landline phones. I never road a horse and buggy, my kids don’t know regular vs. unleaded and their kids won’t know fossil fuel. To me the Nazi’s are in the history books, my kids studied Viet Nam and the Cold War as history, and their kids will look at the Middle East wars as too long ago to be important. We move at an ever increasing rate of change. It is as if we are on a Merry-go-round going faster and faster as we try to reach for something stationary to hang on to but all we can manage is a touch of memory or a short grip of a flash photo in our minds. I notice even when we put our pictures into albums all nicely dressed up we cut out the background to keep what we think is important. We leave a cutout of us at that time with no context to surround us.
As I hold on tight to the pole of my Merry-go-round I wonder what is next and what I have to look forward to. It is exciting and scary and that is life. Then I open my hands folded around a solid pole in the midst of the chaos of change and I smile. I smile because “I don’t know what the future holds, but I know who holds the future.” Do you?
www.themoralbusiness.com
Abandon All Hope
In my continuing effort to make up for my slacking in High School and getting my Bachelor’s degree I finished a book I was supposed to have read 25 years ago: The Inferno, by Dante. The writer has a chance to climb down through the levels of hell, deeper and deeper until he reaches the place of Lucifer himself. The Father of Lies is chewing on Judas Iscariot and others in the deepest, darkest place imaginable. Finally Dante climbs down the body of the Lord of the Flies and finds that he is now facing UP and looking at the legs of the Prince of Darkness. His guide explains that Satan remains, in fact, where he fell to earth, immovable. His feet and legs remain exposed to light while his head, arms, and torso is firmly imbedded in hell.
It was an interesting ending to his journey but I was captured by the beginning of his journey where he and his guide first entered the upper-most level of hell. Before they entered Dante wrote about a sign that said, “Abandon all hope, you who enter here!” I brushed by that statement the first time I read it but, in retrospect that is one of the best descriptions of hell that I have ever heard. Hell is a place of no hope.
Hope is what drives us in our lives. We hope for a better job. We hope for a better life. We hope our children are healthy and become successful. We hope our parents and siblings have all they need. We hope our candidate can change things. We hope our marriage will get better. We hope, we hope, and we hope some more. Even when the doctor tells us “there is no hope” we still hope. Picture a life without hope. Picture a life where there is nothing you can do or try to make things better, healthier, or longer.
The nature of religion is to put a face on that hope and a solid reason behind that hope. Our Faith tells us that our God is in control and eventually, someday, somehow all that is wrong will be made right. Someday our hopes will be realized and that is what gives us hope. Now picture a life with no hope, no chance of things getting better, no chance of pain going away, no chance of … hope. THAT is hell.
Unfortunately many people choose to be in hell right now. It is not something that is in the future but in the present. If you believe you are in one of the levels of hell right now, without hope, then it is time to take a good hard look at who or what you are putting your faith in. In pre-eternity the loss of hope comes from a weak faith or a weak god; which have you?
www.themoralbusiness.com
It was an interesting ending to his journey but I was captured by the beginning of his journey where he and his guide first entered the upper-most level of hell. Before they entered Dante wrote about a sign that said, “Abandon all hope, you who enter here!” I brushed by that statement the first time I read it but, in retrospect that is one of the best descriptions of hell that I have ever heard. Hell is a place of no hope.
Hope is what drives us in our lives. We hope for a better job. We hope for a better life. We hope our children are healthy and become successful. We hope our parents and siblings have all they need. We hope our candidate can change things. We hope our marriage will get better. We hope, we hope, and we hope some more. Even when the doctor tells us “there is no hope” we still hope. Picture a life without hope. Picture a life where there is nothing you can do or try to make things better, healthier, or longer.
The nature of religion is to put a face on that hope and a solid reason behind that hope. Our Faith tells us that our God is in control and eventually, someday, somehow all that is wrong will be made right. Someday our hopes will be realized and that is what gives us hope. Now picture a life with no hope, no chance of things getting better, no chance of pain going away, no chance of … hope. THAT is hell.
Unfortunately many people choose to be in hell right now. It is not something that is in the future but in the present. If you believe you are in one of the levels of hell right now, without hope, then it is time to take a good hard look at who or what you are putting your faith in. In pre-eternity the loss of hope comes from a weak faith or a weak god; which have you?
www.themoralbusiness.com
A Baby Toe, a Tongue and a Rudder
I have a wide walk. I don’t exactly have a duck-like walk with my feet sticking out East and West when I am trying to walk North, but I do have a slight turn on each side. While this does, I believe, give me a little more stability it also leaves a few of my toes vulnerable to the objects they move by on every step. In other words, I tend to stub my toes a LOT.
So I am walking into my office in a bit of a hurry, bare-footed as usual, and I catch my baby toe on the corner of a piece of furniture. If cartoons were real it would have been one of those instances where I would see stars, moons and planets as an indication of extreme pain, and my baby toe would have grown to the size of a basketball with red shading and exclamation punctuation protruding from it. Were I a man given to swearing that would have been a good time to do it. My normal reaction is to inhale through clenched teeth and squeeze the tears from my eyes. Now, my baby toe is black and blue and swelled to the point where I cannot see the separation between the baby toe and the one next to it. Pain still leaps like an electrical shock up my leg if I attempt to clench my toes or walk.
I noticed how much I use that often ignored part of my anatomy. Really, how many times a day do you consider your baby toe? Now I consider it every step I take. I noticed my balance is a bit off and that my sandals scrunch that toe more than they should. It amazes me how important such a little, insignificant thing can be.
I think we take a lot of things like that for granted. A wise man named James wrote that though the tongue is small it controls a person’s life like the small rudder can turn a whole ship. The things we say, purposefully or inadvertently, can set the course for our lives. A damaged baby toe has changed the way I walk and think. The little things in life: toes, tongues and rudders need our attention too. What is the direction you are heading and what is taking you there?
www.themoralbusiness.com
So I am walking into my office in a bit of a hurry, bare-footed as usual, and I catch my baby toe on the corner of a piece of furniture. If cartoons were real it would have been one of those instances where I would see stars, moons and planets as an indication of extreme pain, and my baby toe would have grown to the size of a basketball with red shading and exclamation punctuation protruding from it. Were I a man given to swearing that would have been a good time to do it. My normal reaction is to inhale through clenched teeth and squeeze the tears from my eyes. Now, my baby toe is black and blue and swelled to the point where I cannot see the separation between the baby toe and the one next to it. Pain still leaps like an electrical shock up my leg if I attempt to clench my toes or walk.
I noticed how much I use that often ignored part of my anatomy. Really, how many times a day do you consider your baby toe? Now I consider it every step I take. I noticed my balance is a bit off and that my sandals scrunch that toe more than they should. It amazes me how important such a little, insignificant thing can be.
I think we take a lot of things like that for granted. A wise man named James wrote that though the tongue is small it controls a person’s life like the small rudder can turn a whole ship. The things we say, purposefully or inadvertently, can set the course for our lives. A damaged baby toe has changed the way I walk and think. The little things in life: toes, tongues and rudders need our attention too. What is the direction you are heading and what is taking you there?
www.themoralbusiness.com
When the Cure is Worse than the Illness
There was a time when mentally ill people were given an electrical shock to the brain to “reset” it, much like you would give your heart a shock to get it back in rhythm. There was a time when mentally ill people had a part of their brain lopped off like you would remove your tonsils to keep from inflammation. There was a time when mentally ill people would have their blood let in order to let the evil things out. There is a time, right or wrong, when the cure is worse than the illness. Twenty years from now we will look back on our medical practices and be amazed at how arcane they are.
In the book Don Quixote, Cervantes ends the book with the Don in bed suffering from a crushed body but also a crushed spirit. His friends: a priest, a bachelor, and his family, try to get him to come out of his mental fixation with Knights, Lords, and Ladies and get back to the reality of managing his estate. Don Quixote lived a dream life with his squire Sancho, fighting evil and righting wrongs all in the name of his beauty Dulcinea. He was true to his word as a Knight should be, he was above reproach when treating all women with the highest chivalry, and he championed the poor and fatherless. To do all of this with consistency even though abused and beat up many times meant that he had to be mentally ill, right?
He was a laughing stock to most and an embarrassment to his friends and family with all his antics and that is why they pulled him home to face reality. They administered the “cure” by forcing him to face who he really was. Only his true friend Sancho stayed with him. Eventually he was broken in spirit and never physically recovered.
I wish I had that mental illness. The illness that puts others always ahead of self – no matter the pain. The illness that treats all people with honor and respect – no matter who they are or what station in life they were at. The illness that seeks to right the wrongs in the world – no matter the cost. The illness that is so true to my loved ones that I would sacrifice anything for them. If I had that illness I would not seek to be cured either. Maybe we can find a way to inject that illness into people’s veins, then all people would put other’s ahead of themselves, but maybe I’m just dreaming an Impossible Dream.
www.themoralbusiness.com
In the book Don Quixote, Cervantes ends the book with the Don in bed suffering from a crushed body but also a crushed spirit. His friends: a priest, a bachelor, and his family, try to get him to come out of his mental fixation with Knights, Lords, and Ladies and get back to the reality of managing his estate. Don Quixote lived a dream life with his squire Sancho, fighting evil and righting wrongs all in the name of his beauty Dulcinea. He was true to his word as a Knight should be, he was above reproach when treating all women with the highest chivalry, and he championed the poor and fatherless. To do all of this with consistency even though abused and beat up many times meant that he had to be mentally ill, right?
He was a laughing stock to most and an embarrassment to his friends and family with all his antics and that is why they pulled him home to face reality. They administered the “cure” by forcing him to face who he really was. Only his true friend Sancho stayed with him. Eventually he was broken in spirit and never physically recovered.
I wish I had that mental illness. The illness that puts others always ahead of self – no matter the pain. The illness that treats all people with honor and respect – no matter who they are or what station in life they were at. The illness that seeks to right the wrongs in the world – no matter the cost. The illness that is so true to my loved ones that I would sacrifice anything for them. If I had that illness I would not seek to be cured either. Maybe we can find a way to inject that illness into people’s veins, then all people would put other’s ahead of themselves, but maybe I’m just dreaming an Impossible Dream.
www.themoralbusiness.com
To Each His Dulcinea
I have been catching up with some of the reading that I was required to do in Junior High and High School. Only about 30 years late but cut me some slack, I wasn’t interested in reading then and probably neither were you.
I just finished an exhausting book by Cervantes called Don Quixote – you may have heard of it. It is about a man who spends all his time reading books on the Knights of Old and believes that he is called to become a Knight Errant. Knights Errant are those Knights who serve no specific king but travel the country doing good, righting wrongs, and protecting those with no protection. The motivation for this life is not money or fame but an effort to win the love of their lady. Don Quixote or the Knight of the Sorrowful Face is pestered by wizards who turn giants into windmills, invading armies into flocks of sheep, and mostly those who wish him to come home and give up this crazy dream. He comes home a few times beat up and exhausted only to escape back into his life with his squire Sancho and in the name of the beauty Dulcinea.
No one has seen or heard of Dulcinea. She exists only in the mind of Don Quixote but she is his muse, his motivation, and his might in battle. Without Dulcinea Don Quixote would be nothing more than a fool wearing a shaving basin as a golden helmet.
Who or what is your Dulcinea? What keeps you going? What is your motivation? How strong is that motivation? What makes you get up in the morning? Your Dulcinea could be one of the loves of your life: you spouse or children. It could be the future love of your life: a teenager fighting to remain a virgin. Your Dulcinea may be many things. The priests and servants of Don Quixote tried to convince him that Dulcinea doesn’t exist and his response was: “If there is no Dulcinea then I am a shell void of my very substance!” Amen, preach it brother.
There is a song in the Broadway musical Man of La Mancha on Don Quixote’s life called “To Each His Dulcinea” because while we tip at windmills daily we are strengthened by the substance of our dreams of a better life.
www.themoralbusiness.com
I just finished an exhausting book by Cervantes called Don Quixote – you may have heard of it. It is about a man who spends all his time reading books on the Knights of Old and believes that he is called to become a Knight Errant. Knights Errant are those Knights who serve no specific king but travel the country doing good, righting wrongs, and protecting those with no protection. The motivation for this life is not money or fame but an effort to win the love of their lady. Don Quixote or the Knight of the Sorrowful Face is pestered by wizards who turn giants into windmills, invading armies into flocks of sheep, and mostly those who wish him to come home and give up this crazy dream. He comes home a few times beat up and exhausted only to escape back into his life with his squire Sancho and in the name of the beauty Dulcinea.
No one has seen or heard of Dulcinea. She exists only in the mind of Don Quixote but she is his muse, his motivation, and his might in battle. Without Dulcinea Don Quixote would be nothing more than a fool wearing a shaving basin as a golden helmet.
Who or what is your Dulcinea? What keeps you going? What is your motivation? How strong is that motivation? What makes you get up in the morning? Your Dulcinea could be one of the loves of your life: you spouse or children. It could be the future love of your life: a teenager fighting to remain a virgin. Your Dulcinea may be many things. The priests and servants of Don Quixote tried to convince him that Dulcinea doesn’t exist and his response was: “If there is no Dulcinea then I am a shell void of my very substance!” Amen, preach it brother.
There is a song in the Broadway musical Man of La Mancha on Don Quixote’s life called “To Each His Dulcinea” because while we tip at windmills daily we are strengthened by the substance of our dreams of a better life.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
The Drug Problem in America
I received this email from my father.
The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the adjoining county and he asked me a rhetorical question, ''Why didn't we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?'' I replied: I had a drug problem when I was young. I was drug to church on Sunday morning. I was drug to church for weddings and funerals. I was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the weather. I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adults. I was also drug to the woodshed when I disobeyed my parents, told a lie, brought home a bad report card, did not speak with respect, spoke ill of the teacher or the preacher, or if I didn't put forth my best effort in everything that was asked of me. I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap if I uttered a profane four-letter word. I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden and flower beds and cockleburs out of dad's fields. I was drug to the homes of family, friends, and neighbors to help out some poor soul who had no one to mow the yard, repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood; and, if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime as a tip for this kindness, she would have drug me back to the woodshed.
Those drugs are still in my veins; and they affect my behavior in everything I do, say, and think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and, if today's children had this kind of drug problem, America would be a better place.
Wow. Well said dad! My father is of the WWII “Builder” generation and I am of the “Boomer” generation. The Builder Generation built an amazing America for my generation of parents. The Boomers like me took that freshly built America and tinkered with it. We did some rebelling and some rebuilding but we blew it when it came to our kids. We truly thought we were giving our kids a better life when we removed corporal punishment at home and at school. We thought we were expanding our kid’s minds when we allowed in ideas, thoughts, and influences of all kinds: good and evil. We thought we were making the right choice for our kids when we divorced our spouses to save them from strife at home. We thought our kids would make the right choices if we just “let them be themselves” and wouldn’t “drag” them to things they didn’t want to go to. We were wrong, dead wrong and my generation needs to apologize to the Builder Generation. We have an America that is more wealthy than ever before but more messed up than ever before: drugs everywhere and accessible, sex starting in 7th grade and younger, and kids shooting kids over Xbox and Nikes.
I pray my kids come out of this war against each other in America as another “builder” generation. This time building better families instead of better computers and bank accounts.
www.themoralbusiness.com
The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the adjoining county and he asked me a rhetorical question, ''Why didn't we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?'' I replied: I had a drug problem when I was young. I was drug to church on Sunday morning. I was drug to church for weddings and funerals. I was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the weather. I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adults. I was also drug to the woodshed when I disobeyed my parents, told a lie, brought home a bad report card, did not speak with respect, spoke ill of the teacher or the preacher, or if I didn't put forth my best effort in everything that was asked of me. I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap if I uttered a profane four-letter word. I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden and flower beds and cockleburs out of dad's fields. I was drug to the homes of family, friends, and neighbors to help out some poor soul who had no one to mow the yard, repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood; and, if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime as a tip for this kindness, she would have drug me back to the woodshed.
Those drugs are still in my veins; and they affect my behavior in everything I do, say, and think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and, if today's children had this kind of drug problem, America would be a better place.
Wow. Well said dad! My father is of the WWII “Builder” generation and I am of the “Boomer” generation. The Builder Generation built an amazing America for my generation of parents. The Boomers like me took that freshly built America and tinkered with it. We did some rebelling and some rebuilding but we blew it when it came to our kids. We truly thought we were giving our kids a better life when we removed corporal punishment at home and at school. We thought we were expanding our kid’s minds when we allowed in ideas, thoughts, and influences of all kinds: good and evil. We thought we were making the right choice for our kids when we divorced our spouses to save them from strife at home. We thought our kids would make the right choices if we just “let them be themselves” and wouldn’t “drag” them to things they didn’t want to go to. We were wrong, dead wrong and my generation needs to apologize to the Builder Generation. We have an America that is more wealthy than ever before but more messed up than ever before: drugs everywhere and accessible, sex starting in 7th grade and younger, and kids shooting kids over Xbox and Nikes.
I pray my kids come out of this war against each other in America as another “builder” generation. This time building better families instead of better computers and bank accounts.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Take a Tree Stand
We’ve established that EVERYBODY has a religion, a system of belief, but most can’t define what they believe. If you asked me if I believed in calculus I would answer, “Absolutely!” with not a little bit of emphasis behind it. But if you would ask me to define calculus I would say, “Uh, umm, it has something to do with numbers and how computers work … I think?” I would mumble this because I really don’t know. I never studied calculus, I never had calculus done to me that I know of, and I don’t even know anyone named calculus.
That is pretty much the way people look at their religion, their system of belief, nowadays. We know we believe in a god but really don’t know anything about him or her. We know who Jesus was but really don’t know if he was any different than Confucius or Mohammed or Moses. Because of this we throw out nebulous catch-phrases to define our religion like “undenominational” or “spiritual but not religious” or “my own private beliefs that cannot influence my public actions” and assume no one will call us on that. While these phrases sound nicey-nice and politically correct they are ridiculous, oxymoronic, and shallow. When I hear them I want to slap the person and say, “Wake up, and take a STAND!”
I think those of us in the States are especially guilty of this lazy thinking. We go to the Walmart Undenominational Megaplex Church and pick up our few ounces of good feelings, our package of psychobabble, and a few bottles of smooth talkin’ preacher; then we go home filled but somehow not satisfied. In the 70’s we threw out the baby with the bathwater in our denominational churches by throwing out historic, biblical tradition and knowledge for the sake of openness and feelings.
Any religion, system of belief, denomination or church MUST be able to stand up to your scrutiny and investigation. I should open up a book on calculus, call my friend who teaches Math at a University, and find out if this calculus thing is true, right, and worth believing in and then take a stand. Start to define the trees of the forest of religions and grow a backbone by building a tree-stand in it instead of dancing like a nymph through the forest, touching a few trees, and believing you stand for something.
www.themoralbusiness.com
That is pretty much the way people look at their religion, their system of belief, nowadays. We know we believe in a god but really don’t know anything about him or her. We know who Jesus was but really don’t know if he was any different than Confucius or Mohammed or Moses. Because of this we throw out nebulous catch-phrases to define our religion like “undenominational” or “spiritual but not religious” or “my own private beliefs that cannot influence my public actions” and assume no one will call us on that. While these phrases sound nicey-nice and politically correct they are ridiculous, oxymoronic, and shallow. When I hear them I want to slap the person and say, “Wake up, and take a STAND!”
I think those of us in the States are especially guilty of this lazy thinking. We go to the Walmart Undenominational Megaplex Church and pick up our few ounces of good feelings, our package of psychobabble, and a few bottles of smooth talkin’ preacher; then we go home filled but somehow not satisfied. In the 70’s we threw out the baby with the bathwater in our denominational churches by throwing out historic, biblical tradition and knowledge for the sake of openness and feelings.
Any religion, system of belief, denomination or church MUST be able to stand up to your scrutiny and investigation. I should open up a book on calculus, call my friend who teaches Math at a University, and find out if this calculus thing is true, right, and worth believing in and then take a stand. Start to define the trees of the forest of religions and grow a backbone by building a tree-stand in it instead of dancing like a nymph through the forest, touching a few trees, and believing you stand for something.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Friday, August 04, 2006
Butting Heads
My wife and I took at brief trip to a park nearby where the Nevada State Animal tends to hang out. No, I am not talking about the three-eyed, one armed domestic slot; nor am I talking about the green felt covered table, nor the gold lamiae clad, oxygen toting, retired folk. I am talking about the native long-horned sheep.
There is a park next to the foothills where they come to feed and sit in the grass under the shade of the NON-domestic trees. The come out of rocky, scrub brush land to the manicured park and hang out close to the picnic tables and soccer field. It is kind of like their mini vacation, leaving their harsh life to a life with a buffet of green grass, shade, and peace.
While Frankie would take pictures of them I would sit on the picnic table and watch their interaction. You can tell the males from the females, out side of the obvious, by their darker color and bigger, thicker horns. The bigger and thicker the horns, the older the male. You can also tell the older males by how scarred up their bodies are. Scarred from a life in the rocks but most of all scarred from the many fights for dominance that they have had and, obviously, won. One particular old male sat serenely in the shade about 20 feet from my picnic table and looked over his harem of females. There were a few smaller males around who would make their way over to this patriarch as if to sneak up on him. They would stand over him and he wouldn’t even give them the time of day. His head would turn directly away from them. After a few moments of being ignored the young buck would bow down and nudge the old man with his forehead. The old man would still ignore him so he would nudge a little harder trying to get the attention of the old man. After a few more even stronger butts and attempts to pick a fight the young buck moves on to “play” fighting with another young buck.
After a while the patriarch gets up to graze a bit and every long horned head turns to see where he is going. If not too far they relax again. Human spectators try to get closer and closer to take pictures and when too close all the females, and young males get up and move to the patriarch for protection. The young males just pretend that they are grazing but the females have their heads up and ears out, ready and wary. The head butting commences again with the young males but the patriarch remains, surrounded by his harem, content. The time will come when he will again have to defend his territory and his friends but today … ah, today, he is at peace. I think I will longingly name him Uncle Sam.
www.themoralbusiness.com
There is a park next to the foothills where they come to feed and sit in the grass under the shade of the NON-domestic trees. The come out of rocky, scrub brush land to the manicured park and hang out close to the picnic tables and soccer field. It is kind of like their mini vacation, leaving their harsh life to a life with a buffet of green grass, shade, and peace.
While Frankie would take pictures of them I would sit on the picnic table and watch their interaction. You can tell the males from the females, out side of the obvious, by their darker color and bigger, thicker horns. The bigger and thicker the horns, the older the male. You can also tell the older males by how scarred up their bodies are. Scarred from a life in the rocks but most of all scarred from the many fights for dominance that they have had and, obviously, won. One particular old male sat serenely in the shade about 20 feet from my picnic table and looked over his harem of females. There were a few smaller males around who would make their way over to this patriarch as if to sneak up on him. They would stand over him and he wouldn’t even give them the time of day. His head would turn directly away from them. After a few moments of being ignored the young buck would bow down and nudge the old man with his forehead. The old man would still ignore him so he would nudge a little harder trying to get the attention of the old man. After a few more even stronger butts and attempts to pick a fight the young buck moves on to “play” fighting with another young buck.
After a while the patriarch gets up to graze a bit and every long horned head turns to see where he is going. If not too far they relax again. Human spectators try to get closer and closer to take pictures and when too close all the females, and young males get up and move to the patriarch for protection. The young males just pretend that they are grazing but the females have their heads up and ears out, ready and wary. The head butting commences again with the young males but the patriarch remains, surrounded by his harem, content. The time will come when he will again have to defend his territory and his friends but today … ah, today, he is at peace. I think I will longingly name him Uncle Sam.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Monday, July 31, 2006
Thinking Ahead
There is a Dairy Farm an hour north of Las Vegas. I know what you are thinking, how can there be a dairy in the desert? But it is there in a Valley that has water for the alfalfa and to keep the cows drinking. This dairy has been there for many, many years and now the amazing growth from Las Vegas is causing people to seek “greener pastures” in the form of cheap land and bigger lots for their homes. People from Vegas are moving out into the Valley where this dairy farm is located. Huge plots of 160 acres are being divided up into 40, then 10, and then 2 ½ acres plots to be sold cheaply to Vegas cityfolk.
Now, there is nothing wrong with that, this is progress and some of those people in the Valley are making a lot of money subdividing their land for housing when all they had before was a chunk of dirt. My problem comes when those new Vegas cityfolk start to complain about things they never ran into in the city. Suddenly there are flies around – there are no flies in Las Vegas, too dry. Suddenly there is dust flying around on the dirt roads as farm equipment and trucks go down them, only 3 paved roads in the Valley. Suddenly there are smells of cows and manure being spread on alfalfa fields wafting into their back yards. Suddenly … now wait a minute, there is nothing sudden about this. This dairy farm has been there for decades. These people moved next to a dairy farm and now are filing complaints with the Town Board about the smells, flies and dust of the dairy farm. I am sorry but, if it is a dairy farm, it will have smells, flies and dust; that is the nature of dairy farming. Didn’t these people look up the street to see what they are moving next to before they bought this land and built a house on it? Do people think milk magically appears at the grocery store? Didn’t they think ahead?
It reminds me of a lot of the people I talk to who are having marital problems. After a few years, even months, they start to complain that the person they married is not the person they thought they were. Chances are if the guy drinks a lot, flirts with women, and sleeps until noon BEFORE he is married he will do the same thing AFTER. Chances are if the girl smokes, likes hanging in bars, and likes wearing revealing clothes BEFORE she is married she will do the same thing AFTER. If you move next to a smelly dairy farm the smell won’t magically disappear because of your close proximity. If your fiancé is a smelly drunk they won’t change just because you move in with them.
Think ahead, take a look at your environment both physically and socially before you make a decision to marry yourself to it.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Now, there is nothing wrong with that, this is progress and some of those people in the Valley are making a lot of money subdividing their land for housing when all they had before was a chunk of dirt. My problem comes when those new Vegas cityfolk start to complain about things they never ran into in the city. Suddenly there are flies around – there are no flies in Las Vegas, too dry. Suddenly there is dust flying around on the dirt roads as farm equipment and trucks go down them, only 3 paved roads in the Valley. Suddenly there are smells of cows and manure being spread on alfalfa fields wafting into their back yards. Suddenly … now wait a minute, there is nothing sudden about this. This dairy farm has been there for decades. These people moved next to a dairy farm and now are filing complaints with the Town Board about the smells, flies and dust of the dairy farm. I am sorry but, if it is a dairy farm, it will have smells, flies and dust; that is the nature of dairy farming. Didn’t these people look up the street to see what they are moving next to before they bought this land and built a house on it? Do people think milk magically appears at the grocery store? Didn’t they think ahead?
It reminds me of a lot of the people I talk to who are having marital problems. After a few years, even months, they start to complain that the person they married is not the person they thought they were. Chances are if the guy drinks a lot, flirts with women, and sleeps until noon BEFORE he is married he will do the same thing AFTER. Chances are if the girl smokes, likes hanging in bars, and likes wearing revealing clothes BEFORE she is married she will do the same thing AFTER. If you move next to a smelly dairy farm the smell won’t magically disappear because of your close proximity. If your fiancé is a smelly drunk they won’t change just because you move in with them.
Think ahead, take a look at your environment both physically and socially before you make a decision to marry yourself to it.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Organizing the Denominational Forest
Trees look alike to me. Unless there is a dramatic difference in the bark, or lack of, which I can make out, all trees look alike to me. If I spend the time to examine the leaves I can know the difference even though I cannot name the difference. I know a pine tree, but not what kind of pine. I know a weeping willow but not the difference between a maple and an oak, apple or peach, walnut or olive. I could, I’m sure, if I studied the differences … but I don’t. So when I am in the forest I can’t define the trees.
Many people feel the same way when they see religions, cults, denominations, churches, Protestants, Catholics, Baptists, Lutherans, Methodists, or Mormons. We see that there are individual trees in the forest but have no idea what they are called and what defines them as different from each other. What are the leaves or the fruit of the denominational forests? Let me try to define the forest for you a little.
Your religion is your system of belief. Your organized (sometimes very unorganized) system by which you look at the world. All of us have a religion. Many will say they don’t believe in God of any kind and call that not being religious but NON-belief in a God is a way to believe so therefore: a religion. We all have one. The major religions, or systems of belief in the world are: Christianity, Hindu, Jewish, Moslem (Islam), Shinto, and “no god” or Atheism. There are minor(meaning fewer people, not in importance) like: Taoism, Confucianism, Wicca, Satanism, Earth Worship, Moonies, and Scientology.
So when someone comes up to you and says that they aren’t religious that is similar to someone coming up and telling you that they can’t speak, while speaking. EVERYBODY has a system of belief and therefore everyone has a religion. Most will say that they are not religious because they don’t go to a church or mosque but that just means they are not that particular religion. So what is your system of belief? What is your definition of God or god or the reason you believe there is NO god? That is your religion.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Many people feel the same way when they see religions, cults, denominations, churches, Protestants, Catholics, Baptists, Lutherans, Methodists, or Mormons. We see that there are individual trees in the forest but have no idea what they are called and what defines them as different from each other. What are the leaves or the fruit of the denominational forests? Let me try to define the forest for you a little.
Your religion is your system of belief. Your organized (sometimes very unorganized) system by which you look at the world. All of us have a religion. Many will say they don’t believe in God of any kind and call that not being religious but NON-belief in a God is a way to believe so therefore: a religion. We all have one. The major religions, or systems of belief in the world are: Christianity, Hindu, Jewish, Moslem (Islam), Shinto, and “no god” or Atheism. There are minor(meaning fewer people, not in importance) like: Taoism, Confucianism, Wicca, Satanism, Earth Worship, Moonies, and Scientology.
So when someone comes up to you and says that they aren’t religious that is similar to someone coming up and telling you that they can’t speak, while speaking. EVERYBODY has a system of belief and therefore everyone has a religion. Most will say that they are not religious because they don’t go to a church or mosque but that just means they are not that particular religion. So what is your system of belief? What is your definition of God or god or the reason you believe there is NO god? That is your religion.
www.themoralbusiness.com
My Life was Stolen
This past week my truck was stolen. I parked it at about 7:00 pm one evening and went outside the next morning to pick up my newspapers and I noticed something missing. Then I remembered that I had left everything in my truck. I had my hands full of stuff so I forgot my cell phone in the truck and simply dropped the keys on the floor and left the doors unlocked. I guess I was inviting someone to take it.
After a few calls to people who I thought might be pulling a practical joke on me, I called the police and took care of the filing needed for a stolen vehicle. I went through the first day with kind of a smile on my face like this was still some kind of practical joke. But as time went by it sunk in more and more. A lot of my life was in that truck, I put hours sitting there and driving all around Vegas each week. I listen to my books on CD, I make appointments, I hook up my laptop, I stash everything I might need in one of the storages spaces: maps, phone book, wet wipes, ibuprofen, and even a finger nail clipper. And now it was gone. I began to feel as if my life was stolen from me.
A friend of mine was going out of town so let me borrow his car while I worked out the details with the insurance. I filed a claim with my auto insurance and then picked up a copy of the police report. Their advice was to drive through apartment complex, high school, and mall parking lots because that is where they find most stolen vehicles when they are abandoned. My wife and I did drive through a few and with each small, white truck we saw my heart would leap for a second until I realized it was not mine.
I spent a lot of time on that truck, keeping it clean, shiny and well maintained. I wanted to keep it for a long time looking good. But now it was gone and I felt like a kid who lost his favorite toy and started moping around the house and whining about what I have to do next. It has taught me again, that sometimes we put too much of ourselves into our things. I didn’t lose my life, I just lost my transportation; how shallow of me to put so much of me into a THING! I look at my wife and my kids and I see where my life really is.
Oh, and by the way, they found my truck in perfect condition in a local apartment parking lot just missing a tank of gas. I guess God thought I learned the lesson he wanted me to.
www.themoralbusiness.com
After a few calls to people who I thought might be pulling a practical joke on me, I called the police and took care of the filing needed for a stolen vehicle. I went through the first day with kind of a smile on my face like this was still some kind of practical joke. But as time went by it sunk in more and more. A lot of my life was in that truck, I put hours sitting there and driving all around Vegas each week. I listen to my books on CD, I make appointments, I hook up my laptop, I stash everything I might need in one of the storages spaces: maps, phone book, wet wipes, ibuprofen, and even a finger nail clipper. And now it was gone. I began to feel as if my life was stolen from me.
A friend of mine was going out of town so let me borrow his car while I worked out the details with the insurance. I filed a claim with my auto insurance and then picked up a copy of the police report. Their advice was to drive through apartment complex, high school, and mall parking lots because that is where they find most stolen vehicles when they are abandoned. My wife and I did drive through a few and with each small, white truck we saw my heart would leap for a second until I realized it was not mine.
I spent a lot of time on that truck, keeping it clean, shiny and well maintained. I wanted to keep it for a long time looking good. But now it was gone and I felt like a kid who lost his favorite toy and started moping around the house and whining about what I have to do next. It has taught me again, that sometimes we put too much of ourselves into our things. I didn’t lose my life, I just lost my transportation; how shallow of me to put so much of me into a THING! I look at my wife and my kids and I see where my life really is.
Oh, and by the way, they found my truck in perfect condition in a local apartment parking lot just missing a tank of gas. I guess God thought I learned the lesson he wanted me to.
www.themoralbusiness.com
Modern Memory
My wife and I were shopping in Wal-Mart the other day for a variety of things. I went to find my things and didn’t notice that she went to find her things. When I turned to ask her a question I could not find her. The rows and rows of clothes, the aisles and aisles of good reminded me of the corn fields I used to leave friends in to find their way home. On the farm in Indiana my parents would allow me to invite friends to stay overnight. One of our favorite gags was to take the friend into the corn fields, where the corn was taller than they were and see if they could find their way back out again. Every row looks alike and there is nothing to climb on to find your way. Kind of like our own Hoosier labyrinth. Now you know why my friends would only come over once.
I look down rows and rows and through all the people looking for my wife but I cannot find her and I knew what my friends went through. I can’t even remember what she is wearing. Not panicking I would usually go to the front of the store by the checkout lines that would stretch for a mile and wait for her there. If that didn’t work I would go to the lost children counter and have them announce a lost husband and I would wait with the other lost children for their significant other to pick them up while watching Looney Tunes.
Now-a-days though there is a modern convenience that is the salvation of us lost children: the cell phone. I pull out my cell phone and touch number 1 and the talk button. We talk each other back together again and continue shopping. My cell phone has not only replaced my need to “stay close” but it has eliminated my need for memorizing. If you would ask me what my wife’s number is … all I could tell you is that it is number one on my speed dial, my daughter number 2, and son number three. I used to be able to memorize phone numbers and recall them years afterwards but … no more. But I no longer get lost, no longer miss important calls, and can reach out and touch someone anywhere.
When you gain something, you lose something but the question is: What is the price? What is the loss? Is it worth it? As for me? I’ll be spending less time in the corn fields.
www.themoralbusiness.com
I look down rows and rows and through all the people looking for my wife but I cannot find her and I knew what my friends went through. I can’t even remember what she is wearing. Not panicking I would usually go to the front of the store by the checkout lines that would stretch for a mile and wait for her there. If that didn’t work I would go to the lost children counter and have them announce a lost husband and I would wait with the other lost children for their significant other to pick them up while watching Looney Tunes.
Now-a-days though there is a modern convenience that is the salvation of us lost children: the cell phone. I pull out my cell phone and touch number 1 and the talk button. We talk each other back together again and continue shopping. My cell phone has not only replaced my need to “stay close” but it has eliminated my need for memorizing. If you would ask me what my wife’s number is … all I could tell you is that it is number one on my speed dial, my daughter number 2, and son number three. I used to be able to memorize phone numbers and recall them years afterwards but … no more. But I no longer get lost, no longer miss important calls, and can reach out and touch someone anywhere.
When you gain something, you lose something but the question is: What is the price? What is the loss? Is it worth it? As for me? I’ll be spending less time in the corn fields.
www.themoralbusiness.com
The Journey is the Thing
Many people have said, even I have said, that it is not the destination it is the journey that is the thing. It’s not the place it’s the act of getting there that is important. Obviously the people who said this have never traveled overseas. I just got back from an overseas trip to Europe and I loved the destination and hated the journey.
It all started simply enough with an airplane trip from Las Vegas to Denver. My wife and I trudged the bags for a 10 day trip worrying about weight limits and bag size restriction. We begged and pleaded for our emergency row seats for more leg room for my wide-body. It was a relatively easy 2-hour flight and we landed on time. My back was strained but not broken as I struggled to keep up with my wife’s “airport speed” racing from one terminal to another. After the typical hurry up and wait travel itinerary we boarded our plane for the next leg of our trip: Denver to Detroit. We pushed away from the dock and stopped, after a few minutes the captain came on the crackling over-head speakers with those dreaded words, “I’m sorry folks but …” The delay lasted for two and a half hours, then we finally took off. If the jet stream was in our favor we just might make our connecting flight in Detroit to Frankfurt, Germany. We watched the plane pull away from the gate as we ran, knocking down old ladies and babies, to get there. We missed our connecting flight, the only one of the day, the only one every 24 hours, by about 10 minutes and watched it take off with a small tear running down our cheek. Instead of the enjoying the ancient ruins of Greece we spent the time in a local Detroit hotel.
Airplanes cause me back problems, leg and shoulder cramps, and hours of unrest. After wedging my body into something akin to a kid’s metal car seat I have to sit with my shoulders folded in like wings under my chin so they don’t spread into the seat next to me. If I opened one wing into the aisle it was whacked by the serving cart going by. If I opened the other it would stretch half-way across the adjacent seat. After a few hours I end up at the tail of the plane standing by the restrooms annoying people and stewardesses trying to get by me. I hate the journey. I look at those lucky, skinny, short people resting, sleeping, laughing during the journey, enjoying their box lunch while I stand bruised and beaten in the back of the bus. While I fight down envy and anger at those sleeping peacefully during the journey I think about the destination, the purpose for going through this torture and, finally, I smile.
As I focused on the purpose and joy coming in the destination, the journey’s pain seems to ease a bit and that is the key to surviving the journey. Never will the pain go away but we can ease it with looking forward and focusing on the final destination. What are you focused on?
www.themoralbusiness.com
It all started simply enough with an airplane trip from Las Vegas to Denver. My wife and I trudged the bags for a 10 day trip worrying about weight limits and bag size restriction. We begged and pleaded for our emergency row seats for more leg room for my wide-body. It was a relatively easy 2-hour flight and we landed on time. My back was strained but not broken as I struggled to keep up with my wife’s “airport speed” racing from one terminal to another. After the typical hurry up and wait travel itinerary we boarded our plane for the next leg of our trip: Denver to Detroit. We pushed away from the dock and stopped, after a few minutes the captain came on the crackling over-head speakers with those dreaded words, “I’m sorry folks but …” The delay lasted for two and a half hours, then we finally took off. If the jet stream was in our favor we just might make our connecting flight in Detroit to Frankfurt, Germany. We watched the plane pull away from the gate as we ran, knocking down old ladies and babies, to get there. We missed our connecting flight, the only one of the day, the only one every 24 hours, by about 10 minutes and watched it take off with a small tear running down our cheek. Instead of the enjoying the ancient ruins of Greece we spent the time in a local Detroit hotel.
Airplanes cause me back problems, leg and shoulder cramps, and hours of unrest. After wedging my body into something akin to a kid’s metal car seat I have to sit with my shoulders folded in like wings under my chin so they don’t spread into the seat next to me. If I opened one wing into the aisle it was whacked by the serving cart going by. If I opened the other it would stretch half-way across the adjacent seat. After a few hours I end up at the tail of the plane standing by the restrooms annoying people and stewardesses trying to get by me. I hate the journey. I look at those lucky, skinny, short people resting, sleeping, laughing during the journey, enjoying their box lunch while I stand bruised and beaten in the back of the bus. While I fight down envy and anger at those sleeping peacefully during the journey I think about the destination, the purpose for going through this torture and, finally, I smile.
As I focused on the purpose and joy coming in the destination, the journey’s pain seems to ease a bit and that is the key to surviving the journey. Never will the pain go away but we can ease it with looking forward and focusing on the final destination. What are you focused on?
www.themoralbusiness.com
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